


The Long Way Home

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Eleven years after Jimmy forced Thomas' dismissal without a reference, they meet again on the streets of Liverpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> For more stories sooner, feel free to follow me at: gigitrek.tumblr.com

“Spare something for the less fortunate, sir?” The man coughed, a thick, phlegmy sound, but it was his voice that caught Jimmy’s ear. It wasn’t the nasal Liverpudlian accent he’d grown accustomed to hearing. Rather, it was broad Yorkshire, the way Jimmy’s had been before he tempered it for a life in service. Jimmy turned around. The beggar standing behind him was scruffy, naturally, his head bowed so Jimmy couldn’t see his face.

“Deal with that, would you, Mr. Kent?” Mr. Finley waved a hand dismissively.

“Yes, sir.” Jimmy reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out his wallet. The money inside was Mr. Finley’s, but Mr. Finley never liked to be seen paying for anything himself. It was too middle-class. The chauffeur, Wilkins, opened the door and Mr. Finley stepped into the waiting Rolls-Royce.

Jimmy turned back. The beggar held out a hand. It was a cold late autumn day, with an icy wind blowing in off the sea, but the man wore only a brown tweed suit and a single tattered glove, on his left hand. When Jimmy held out a few shillings, the man looked up, and Jimmy nearly dropped the wallet.

It was him. Jimmy didn’t need to look twice. His hair was long and unkempt, reaching his collar, shot through with grey. A thick, dark beard covered his face. Jimmy would never have expected that, not in a thousand years, but he’d never expected to encounter Thomas Barrow again, after any amount of time. “Thomas.” Jimmy didn’t know why that, rather than “Mr. Barrow,” was the first name that came to mind. Thomas hadn’t recognized him, not until that moment. Then, in an instant, he knew. Jimmy could read it on Thomas’ face, in the expression of pure fear that came to his eyes.

“No,” Jimmy said, because he wasn’t like that now. “Wait.” Thomas didn’t listen. He turned and ran as quickly as anybody could down the crowded pavement.

Jimmy couldn’t lose him, not again. He turned and bent, looking at Mr. Finley through the window of the car. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve got a personal errand to run. It completely slipped my mind.”

Mr. Finley didn’t glance up from the pile of papers on his knee. “Mind you’re back in time to dress me. We’ve got Sir Cyril and Lady Grainger for dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” Jimmy barely paused to reply. Then he was off, pursuing Thomas through the throng of humanity.

It wasn’t easy, but Jimmy was not going to give up. He pushed through clusters of men in long coats and women in large hats, swimming against the tide. He caught a glimpse of brown tweed disappear around a corner and he followed it into a narrow alleyway between two shops. “Thomas,” he called. The figure stepped nimbly over piles of rubbish. Jimmy wasn’t so dextrous. His foot squelched into something wet, which covered his shoe in oozy slime. “Thomas, please wait.” Jimmy didn’t expect Thomas to listen, but he did. He stopped at the end of the alleyway next to a large rubbish bin, allowing Jimmy to catch up to him.

Jimmy ran up, puffing and wheezing, then found he didn’t know what to say. He looked at Thomas again, taking him in. Thomas had always been slender, but now he was gaunt, almost skeletal. His eyes sunk deeply into his head; his lips were split. His uncovered hand was red and chapped with cold and a strange smell, a combination of sweat and dirt and rubbish, radiated from his body. Jimmy’s heart ached at the same time it felt a painful stab of one very clear emotion: guilt. “I’m so sorry.” The words were out of Jimmy’s mouth before he realized how painfully inadequate they were. “I’m truly sorry,” he repeated, as if that made it better.

“Hello,” Thomas said, as if he’d just walked down the stairs at Downton and run into Jimmy in the servants’ hall.

Jimmy couldn’t make believe like that. “You must hate me.” Jimmy had hated himself for a long time, until he’d finally acknowledged he couldn’t turn back the clock. All he could do, for Thomas’ sake as well as his own, was to become a better man. A more honest man. That was what Jimmy had done. Tried to, at least.

A surprising smile came to Thomas’ lips. “Why should I do that, Jimmy?”

It was strange to hear that name again. Jimmy hadn’t been Jimmy since Thomas left Downton. He’d been James or Mr. Kent to everybody, even his friends—even his lovers—since that day.

But Thomas’ question was too obvious to beg a reply. Unless, Jimmy thought, he has truly gone mad. That’s not possible. Is it? “What are you doing here, Thomas?” He didn’t mean this particular alleyway, this particular circumstance. He knew the answer to that already. “I mean, why Liverpool?”

“I was meant to go to America. Years ago.” Eleven years ago, Jimmy assumed, when Jimmy had ruined Thomas’ life because he was too much of a coward to face his own. “This is as far as I got.”

“I’ve been here for six years.” Jimmy had worked for the wealthy shipping magnate Mr. Harold Finley the entire time, first as a footman and then as his valet. It was strange to Jimmy, to think that he and Thomas had shared a city for all these years and never run into one another before now. Of course, Jimmy thought, wretchedly, we don’t exactly move in the same circles. “I’m a valet.”

“That’s good. I knew you would do well.” There was no sarcasm in Thomas’ voice, no hint of bitterness. “I should go now.”

“No!”

Thomas looked up, clearly surprised at his vehemence, but Jimmy didn’t care. “You need a bath. And a shave.”

“Thanks ever so for mentioning it.” Just then, Jimmy heard a hint of the old Mr. Barrow in his voice. It made Jimmy smile, despite everything.

“Come with me,” Jimmy said. “We’ll go to a hotel. Get you cleaned up.”

“That’s not…”

“I’ve got the money,” Jimmy interrupted, so Thomas didn’t worry about that. “Well, I’ve got Mr. Finley’s money. He’s got so much of it, he never notices if I spend a little extra here and there.” Jimmy reached out to touch Thomas’ shoulder, to urge him along. Thomas flinched away before Jimmy’s hand made contact. Jimmy tried to look like he hadn’t noticed, while embarrassment joined the guilt roiling inside him.

“Come on.”

“I can’t go to a hotel. They’ll chuck me out.”

“Not if you’re with me.” Jimmy was no longer a beautiful boy, but he had matured into a handsome man. He may only have been a valet, but people took notice of him. They listened to him, mostly, just like they always had.

“Aren’t you…” Thomas’ eyes flicked to the filthy ground and then back up again, to meet Jimmy’s. Jimmy’s heart beat a little faster. “Aren’t you worried what people might think?” It didn’t sound like a jibe. It sounded like an honest question, and that made Jimmy feel even worse.

“Come on, Thomas.” A shiver passed through Thomas’ body. “Here.” Without thinking twice, or even once, Jimmy took off his overcoat. It was a good one, nearly brand new, paid for by Mr. Finley and made by Finley’s own tailor. He handed it to Thomas.

“I can’t…”

“Of course you bloody can,” Jimmy snapped, more harshly than he’d intended. Jimmy had ruined Thomas’ life. The least he could do was lend him an overcoat.

Thomas pulled on the coat. It was a little short on him, but otherwise fit well, and made a great improvement to Thomas’ appearance. Jimmy wished he could do something about Thomas’ hair and beard, but that would have to wait. “Let’s go. Now.” He walked away, praying that Thomas would follow. He did.

They went to the Grand. It was one of Mr. Finley’s haunts, where he put up the guests he didn’t want staying in his house, such as his wife’s sisters. It was only when Jimmy strode up to the desk and the clerk said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Kent,” that he thought perhaps he should have chosen somewhere more anonymous. It was too late now.

“Good afternoon,” Jimmy gave the clerk his most dazzling smile. He’d told Thomas to hang back a bit, and he stood just inside the entryway, looking innocently at a painting on the wall. Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. A well-dressed woman gave Thomas a very wide berth, going far out of her way to avoid passing too close to where he stood. “I’d like a room for tonight.”

“Of course.” The clerk smiled back. Jimmy remembered his name, vaguely. Richard? Robert? They had an ongoing flirtation, never serious, but there were other things on Jimmy’s mind today. “Will that be on Mr. Finley’s account?”

“No.” Jimmy couldn’t go quite that far. “I’ll pay.”

Richard or Robert’s eyebrows went up, only slightly, then he was the picture of flawless servitude again. “I can offer you number twenty-two, on the third floor?” The numbers meant nothing to Jimmy, but as long as it had a bed and a bath, Jimmy didn’t care. He couldn’t imagine Thomas would, either.

“That’s fine.” Jimmy glanced over his shoulder again. The doorman, in a bright red coat with gleaming brass buttons, had approached Thomas. They were talking, Thomas holding his hands up defensively. “Thank you.” Jimmy grabbed the key out of Robert or Richard’s hand. He made it over to Thomas just as the doorman said, “Move along. Neither of us want any trouble.”

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” Jimmy fixed the doorman with his iciest glare. It was very icy indeed, if he did say so. The man backed off, literally moving a step away from Thomas.

“Just clearing out the riffraff, sir.”

“The riffraff happens to be a guest. There you are, Mr. Barrow.” Jimmy handed over the room key with an ostentatious flourish. “Room twenty-two. I believe it’s on the third floor.”

The doorman looked between them. “My apologies, sir.” The words didn’t sound sincere. Jimmy gave a tight smile and held out an arm, pointing Thomas towards the lifts. He could feel Richard or Robert’s eyes on them as they crossed the foyer, but it didn’t matter. In the last decade, Jimmy had become a lot better at ignoring the opinions of others.

They rode the lift up and made their way down the plushly carpeted hallway. Jimmy glanced at the pinstriped wallpaper and the electric lights in wooden sconces and said, “Reminds me of Downton, a bit.”

“A bit.” Thomas sounded unsure, not entirely trusting. Jimmy couldn’t blame him.

“Mr. Finley’s house is much more modern. His city house. He’s got an old castle in the country, too, but we hardly ever go there.” They reached number twenty-two. Thomas slid the key into the lock. “His attitudes are a lot more modern, as well.” The room was simple by the standards of the Grand, but the bed looked large and comfortable, and Jimmy could see a claw-footed bathtub through the whitewashed lavatory door. “He doesn’t treat me like his personal serf.”

“That’s good,” Thomas said, but his voice was distant. He gazed around the room like he’d never seen anything like it. He stared at the bureau, even going so far as to reach out and touch one of the brass drawer handles tentatively, as if he thought he might get burned, or get into trouble. It made Jimmy’s stomach seize up in knots.

“Come on, Thomas,” Jimmy said briskly, trying to cover his feelings. “I’ll draw you a bath and you can get out of those stinking clothes.”

“Jimmy.” Thomas didn’t move.

“Chop chop, Thomas. The sooner the better.” Jimmy smiled, but it was true. Serf or not, he did take pride in his job, and he’d promised Mr. Finley he’d be back in time to dress him for dinner.

“I don’t think…” Thomas trailed off.

Of course. He didn’t want to take off his clothes in front of Jimmy. Jimmy had grown so used to seeing naked men, on a professional basis as well as a personal one, that he’d overstepped his bounds, and he’d made Thomas uncomfortable. Again. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it.” He pointed to the ivory telephone, accented with brass, on the bureau. “When you’re finished in the bath, order yourself something to eat. Anything you like. Get a lot.” Thomas looked like he needed it.

Thomas looked at him. “Why are you doing this?” Thomas’ voice was so small, so unlike the Thomas Jimmy had known, that Jimmy had to clear his throat and look away.

“You know why,” he replied. Thomas nodded. “I’ve got to go home,” Jimmy went on, quickly. “But I’ll come back later. We can…” What? Talk? There was nothing to say. Reminisce about old times? They didn’t have any worth remembering. Catch up on all the news? Jimmy only had to look at Thomas to see what he’d been doing lately. Living rough, eating nothing, begging on the street like a broken man. A man Jimmy had broken.

“Thank you,” was all Thomas said. It was wrong. He shouldn’t be thanking Jimmy; he should never thank Jimmy for anything. Jimmy would never be worthy of Thomas’ gratitude. He would be forever in his debt. Jimmy didn’t say that; rather, he turned to go.

“Wait,” Thomas said. Jimmy turned back. Thomas pulled off the overcoat, but Jimmy shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said, and reached for the door.

***

Mr. Finley’s father had been an insurance salesman; his grandmother had been a housemaid. He knew nothing about high society, and even now, he relied on Jimmy to tell him how to dress for dinner with a knight of the realm and his wife.

“You’re most aristocratic member of this household,” Mr. Finley had said once, and it made Jimmy swell with pride. He was still a vain man, he could admit that without qualm, and the compliment had thrilled him. Mr. Finley liked him, and Jimmy counted on that when he said, “I wonder if I might have the evening off. I ran into a friend this afternoon, from when I worked at Downton Abbey.”

Mr. Finley also liked to be reminded that Jimmy had left the Granthams, true members of the upper-crust, to work for him. “I suppose so.” He shot his cuffs. Jimmy stepped forward and rearranged them. “Just let Vernon know, would you? I don’t want him coming to me in a panic.” Jimmy doubted he would even notice. Mr. Vernon was a caricature of a drunken butler, which was just as well. Jimmy was too young still to be promoted to butler himself, but within three years, five at the outside, Vernon would be gone, one way or another, and Jimmy would be head of the Finley household.

“Thank you, sir.”

When Mr. Finley had gone downstairs, Jimmy took the smallest suitcase, the one they never used, from the upper shelf. Glancing periodically at the door, he delved into the furthest reaches of the wardrobe and took out a jacket, a waistcoat, two shirts, a set of braces and two pairs of trousers Mr. Finley hardly ever wore.

Jimmy had never stolen before, not really. He appropriated money regularly, if he fancied a flutter on the horses or if he was behind in cards, but that was different. Finley was rich as Croesus—much, much richer than Lord Grantham—and it was true what Jimmy had said to Thomas. He never missed a penny of it. But stealing clothes seemed different. Thomas would have done it for me, Jimmy reminded himself, and it eased his guilt a little. He took three pairs of drawers and a handful of ties, so Thomas would have a few to choose from.

Jimmy checked the hall before he emerged from the dressing room, but he didn’t check well enough. He hadn’t even reached the stairs when he heard footsteps. Jimmy looked around, his most innocent expression on his face, and saw the first footman standing behind him.

“Jesus, George.” Jimmy sighed in relief. “You gave me the fright of my life.”

“What are you doing?” George’s eyes flicked from Jimmy’s face to the suitcase and back again. He was young, although not as young as Jimmy had been when he started at Downton Abbey. Jimmy liked to think he was a sort of mentor to the boy, a role model and an object of respect. George’s face broke into a grin. “Have you got a new man?”

Perhaps not complete respect. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Kent. You can tell me. It’s good news. I know how broken up you were when your Frank went to America.”

“That’s none of your business, George.” It wasn’t. Even if he was right. “Anyway, I’m visiting a friend. Mr. Finley agreed. Let Vernon know, would you?”

“A male friend?”

“I’d hardly be seeing a woman, would I?” That didn’t sound the way Jimmy had meant it to.

George smirked. “No. You wouldn’t.” Jimmy flushed, but George shook his head. “I’m only teasing you. ‘Course I’ll tell Vernon. Are you coming back tonight? I’ll dress His Nibs tomorrow morning if you’re not in by then.” There was no innuendo in the words, only a true desire to be helpful.

“Of course I’ll be in. Good-bye, George.” Jimmy slipped down the stairs before George could engage him in further conversation.

Jimmy hadn’t meant for George to know his secret. He hadn’t meant for anyone to know it, beyond the men who shared it, but one night George had chanced upon Jimmy and his lover Bert, the one before Frank, kissing behind the garden shed. The world had not come crumbling down. George had not forced Mr. Finley to turn Jimmy out onto the street; he hadn’t been angry at all. They had even remained friends.

“It’s got to be easier, in a way,” George said, as he and Jimmy sat playing cards one night after the discovery. “Going with men, I mean.” Jimmy could feel the blood rising to his cheeks, even as George shrugged. “I never know what to say to girls. At least you can always talk about sport.”

George’s knowing was another chink in the armor that had started to crack after Thomas’ dismissal and which now was all but non-existent. Jimmy was still cautious, of course. It was still dangerous, but he no longer ran from who he was or hid from what he wanted. If that caused him trouble one day, then so be it. He wasn’t a coward anymore, not when it came to that.

Before he left the house, Jimmy stopped by his own room. He threw a half-smoked packet of cigarettes into the suitcase, along with a few pairs of socks, his shaving kit and two paperback novels, anything he thought Thomas might need or like. He sneaked out without encountering anybody else and made his way back to the hotel.

When Jimmy arrived, he knocked sharply on the door of number twenty-two. There was no answer. He knocked again, and again, nobody replied. Fear gripped Jimmy’s heart. What if Thomas had left already? What if he’d been too embarrassed, or too angry, to accept Jimmy’s charity after all? Jimmy couldn’t face that. He had to make things right with Thomas, he needed to, and this would likely be his only opportunity. He raised his hand to knock a third time, desperation mounting, when the door swung open.

“Sorry, Jimmy.” Thomas wore only a white towel, wrapped around his hips. His hair was wet, slicked back like in the old days. Drops of water glistened on his body and slid down, disappearing into the thatch of dark hair on his chest and lower, across his nearly concave stomach. His body was marred with scars, some old and faded, others fresher and painful-looking. Jimmy looked away abruptly, his eyes landing on the nearest wall sconce. “I must have fallen asleep in the bath.”

He let Jimmy in. Jimmy set the suitcase on the bed and Thomas disappeared again, returning to the lavatory. His back was riddled with scars as well, Jimmy noticed.

“I’ve brought you some new clothes,” Jimmy called. He flicked the suitcase open and pulled out a shirt and trousers. He hesitated over the underclothes, but Thomas would hardly want to go without them. Jimmy went over to the lavatory door and paused again. “I’ll just leave them here, outside the door.” He crossed the room, getting as far as he could from Thomas. He looked out the window, at the view of the docks. He waited until he heard Thomas emerge from the lavatory, then he turned.

Thomas and Mr. Finley were nearly the same height, but Thomas was of a far more slender build. The shirt was baggy and even with the belt, the trousers slipped low on Thomas’ hips. “Do you want to go out for dinner,” Jimmy asked, not looking at the bare strip of skin visible above Thomas’ waistband,“or would you prefer to dine in?”

“In, I think. I’m not quite up to snuff.” Thomas was right. His hair was still too long, and his beard was still too scruffy. Jimmy had never kissed a man with a beard, he realized suddenly. One of his earliest lovers, William, had worn a moustache, but beards were out of fashion. He wondered, idly, what it might feel like.

“What would you like to eat, then?” Jimmy asked, pushing those ridiculous ideas aside.

Thomas shrugged. “Anything is fine.”

“Surely not anything.” Jimmy picked up the menu, propped up on the bureau.

“I fought a stray dog for my last meal, Jimmy,” Thomas said. There was humour in his voice, but a blush came to Jimmy’s face. How, he asked himself, could I be such an insensitive clod? “It was a draw. So believe me when I say anything is fine.”

Jimmy picked up the telephone. He ordered at random, salads and steaks and lobster and oysters. When he put down the phone, he couldn’t remember half of what they were expecting to receive. “It’ll take a few minutes,” Jimmy said. The woman who took his order had sounded stunned at the size of it.

“I can wait.”

Thomas sat on the bed. Jimmy stayed where he was, at the bureau, on an upholstered red chair with carved wooden arms. “When did you leave Downton?” Thomas asked, after a long pause.

“Six years ago.” Mr. Finley had been a guest of Lord Grantham’s. He’d come for a weekend; by Sunday night, Jimmy was writing up his resignation.

“Your new master swept you away, did he?”

Not quite. “His valet did.” Jimmy wasn’t ashamed of that, but he was worried how Thomas might react. He let his eyes slide over, subtly, but Thomas’ expression didn’t change.

“Are you still with him?”

It was odd, to speak about these things so plainly with Thomas. Jimmy was used to it with George, and with the small number of men he’d had in his bed, but talking like this with Thomas sent a shiver of something different up his spine, something Jimmy hadn’t felt before. “No,” Jimmy replied. “There have been a few others since then, but nobody at the moment.” Not since Frank decamped for Boston. All the men had been of a type, dark-haired and taller than Jimmy, and they’d all loved Jimmy devotedly, almost to distraction in some cases. Jimmy loved them back, particularly Frank, but he’d never felt quite right. There had been something missing, always, although he’d never said that to any of the men.

Jimmy expected Thomas to rage at him. He deserved that. He deserved an unanswerable demand along the lines of, “How in God’s name could you ruin me if you’re the same as me?” Instead, Thomas said, “I’m pleased for you,” in that same neutral tone. It was infuriating.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” Jimmy snapped. If Thomas isn’t going to show some bloody emotion, he decided, then I will.

“Should I be?”

“Of course you bloody should be! You fought some rabid mongrel for your last meal, Thomas.”

“Oh, I don’t think he was rabid. Or a mongrel. Looked like a pure Alsatian to me. The only reason I got a look in was because he only had three legs.”

“Thomas!” Jimmy had never been so irritated. He wanted Thomas’ anger. He wanted Thomas to rail and shout and even hit him, if he wanted to. Jimmy needed to put things right, and he couldn’t if Thomas was refusing to acknowledge the problem.

Thomas sighed. He moved on the bed so he sat at the end, facing Jimmy on the chair. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I could have stood up to her.” He should have. Jimmy regretted every day that he hadn’t. Whenever he saw that sort of intimidation going on at Finley’s—well, not precisely that sort of intimidation, but any situation like it—he stepped in at once. God knew the drunken butler wasn’t going to intervene, and Jimmy couldn’t let what happened to him, and what had happened to Thomas, ever be repeated. “I could have been a man.”

“But you weren’t, my dear.” Thomas smiled gently. That, coupled with the unexpected endearment, twisted Jimmy’s stomach into a knot of Gordian proportions. “You were a boy, and it was never your fault. I’m the one who ought to have known better.”

“No.”

“I hanged myself.”

“I gave you the rope.” There had been no need for Thomas to be dismissed without a reference. No need except O’Brien’s maliciousness and Jimmy’s cowardice.

“If you hadn’t, somebody else would have, sooner or later.”

Perversely, Jimmy felt hurt. No matter what he’d done, no matter how badly he’d treated Thomas, Jimmy had always clung to the fact that Thomas had thought him special. For whatever reason, Thomas had loved him, had chosen him. Even if it had been his undoing, for a few moments—a few months—Thomas had adored him with an ardent passion undiminished by Jimmy’s lack of appreciation.

Hearing it was a random draw, that he was just the lucky winner of a tombola prize that had to go to somebody, made Jimmy feel worse than ever. He longed to cry, but refused to do so. He looked away, focusing his gaze on the carpet, on the window, on anything he could find. Thomas’ good hand landed on top of his. “You’re still damned beautiful, Jimmy. Am I allowed to say that?” Jimmy glanced up. The barest of smiles hovered on Thomas’ lips.

“Only if you mean it.” The words came automatically. Jimmy regretted them at once. They were too flirtatious, the sort of thing he might say to the hotel clerk or one of his lovers. The smile grew, but Thomas pulled his hand away. Jimmy immediately regretted that, too.

“Tell me about your life,” Jimmy heard himself say. If he couldn’t have Thomas’ anger, then he deserved to hear every torturous detail of what Thomas had gone through, every painful word of what Jimmy had caused, no matter how sickening.

“Tell me about yours,” Thomas countered. “It sounds much more romantic.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I was fed up with being second footman at Downton Abbey.” Apart from O’Brien, who was gone within a year, nobody was pleased with Jimmy’s cruelty towards Thomas. Alfred was named first footman, and Jimmy had to get used to following his orders.

Even later, when Alfred went back to restaurant work, another man was hired and moved into the first footman position. The excuse was that the new man had a decade’s worth of experience in the Duke of Marlborough’s house, but Jimmy knew better. “Mr. Finley came to visit one day, and his valet came with him.” The valet was another Thomas, called Tommy Shearer. The irony had not been lost in Jimmy, but this Tommy was different. Not physically. Shearer and Thomas were much alike there, but in attitude, they could not have been more dissimilar. Shearer was sweet and funny, in a slapstick way rather than a caustic one, prone to pratfalls in the servants’ hall and pinching the housemaids’ bottoms. “He told me I was too handsome to be just a footman,” Jimmy said. Thomas sat up suddenly, as if he’d been shocked. “I’m sorry, Thomas…” 

Thomas shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s just that someone said that to me once, too. Please, go on.”

“He was very…romantic.” Jimmy did not wish to speak about this with Thomas, not in the slightest, but if Thomas wanted to hear it, he would give it to him. Jimmy would give him anything he wanted. He’d given it to Shearer.

His first evening at the house, Shearer had rested a gentle hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as Jimmy sat at the piano. It’s time now, Jimmy thought. I have nothing to lose. Everybody hates me anyway. At supper, Jimmy had rested a slightly more demanding hand on Shearer’s knee. After dark, Jimmy crept into Shearer’s bedroom. They’d kissed and kissed, and when Tommy slipped his fingers into Jimmy’s pyjama bottoms, Jimmy whispered, “I’ve never done it before.”

“Lucky me,” said Shearer.

“You were ready to leave Downton, then?” Thomas asked, bringing Jimmy back to the present.

“I was ready for a lot of things then.”

Thomas took his meaning. Jimmy could see it in his eyes. “Love’s young dream.”

“For a while.” Then it had cooled off. Jimmy and Shearer had remained friends. It was impossible not to be friends with Shearer, and when he’d decided to go back to Dorset, to be nearer to his family, Jimmy had missed him. But he had got Shearer’s job, and become valet to Mr. Finley. William had come after, a year or so later, then Bert, then Frank. They were good, but none of them were Thomas.

Jimmy looked up. Thomas looked back at him, steadily, and Jimmy remembered a dark night years earlier, when Thomas had smiled at him and gripped his arm too tightly and told him he was a good person. He remembered what had happened later that night, as well. Thomas had cried, sobbing, inconsolable over the death of Lady Sybil. Jimmy hadn’t consoled him. He hadn’t known what to do; he hadn’t even wanted to make an attempt. He’d regretted that, later. He had much to regret when it came to Thomas, yet that night stood out in his memory. He could have said or done something to help. He could have tried.

Jimmy licked his lips. Thomas blinked. An undefinable emotion rose in Jimmy’s chest. He didn’t know what it was, he couldn’t put a finger on it, but it wanted to come out. Jimmy opened his mouth, as eager as anybody to hear what he was about to say, and there was a knock on the door.

At once, Thomas headed for the lavatory.

“You don’t need to hide,” Jimmy said, as he walked towards the door. Hotel staff were much like domestic staff, he assumed. “I’m sure they’ve seen worse than two fully clothed men in a room with one bed.”

“Maybe they have. I don’t plan to find out.”

There was enough food that the hotel porters brought a table with them. They set it up between the bed and the window, loading it with everything Jimmy had ordered. If they thought any of this was the least bit strange, they didn’t let on. Jimmy tipped them with Mr. Finley’s money. When they were gone, Thomas emerged.

His eyes widened at the sight of the food. Jimmy had to admit, it was impressive. It looked like a dinner party at Mr. Finley’s, or like a regular evening at Downton. “Have a seat, sir.” Jimmy joked, pulling the chair over from the desk.

Jimmy knew he must be ravenous, but, even after all this time, Thomas’ table manners were impeccable. Jimmy had ordered two good bottles of wine—he assumed they were good from the price, but he was no expert—and he filled and refilled Thomas’ glass. Jimmy had been fond of drinking, once. It lost its lustre years ago, about a year after Thomas left. Jimmy had gotten drunk at a fair and was badly beaten by two village thugs, left for dead beneath a bridge. Daisy and Ivy had found him some time later. He’d taken a fortnight to recover at the village hospital. When he got back home, he overheard Mrs. Patmore murmur, “I don’t like to speak ill, but what goes around comes around, I say,” to Mrs. Hughes. Jimmy knew exactly who they were talking about.

Jimmy didn’t drink much, but Thomas drank quite a bit. By the time they came to dessert, a bottle and a half was gone, and there was a blush on Thomas’ cheeks Jimmy refused to notice.

“I had crème brulée in Paris once,” Jimmy said, as he broke the crust with a spoon. As it turned out, French food wasn’t so bad after all. “Tommy and I went to a wonderful restaurant near the Champs Élysées.” It was the only real holiday Jimmy had ever had, the only time he’d ever been abroad if you didn’t count the war. He didn’t. Shearer had convinced Mr. Finley it was de rigeur to bring one’s footman away, just so they could be together. It was heaven. They’d gone to restaurants and seen the Eiffel Tower and kissed, privately, by the banks of the Seine. Jimmy had never been happier, but the happiness wasn’t complete. That nagging, ever-present feeling was still there, the inescapable sensation that something was missing.

“Who’s Tommy?” Thomas picked up his wineglass again.

“My first lover,” Jimmy scooped up a bit of caramelized crust, saving it from drowning in the thick cream. “Mr. Shearer. Mr. Finley’s former valet.” He put his spoon into his mouth. It was good, but it wasn’t Paris.

There was an odd snap, and Jimmy glanced up. There was only one chair, so he was forced to sit on the edge of the bed. From this position, he saw Thomas’ wineglass had broken in two, the stem still in his hand while the bowl lay on the table, dribbling wine onto the tablecloth. “Are you all right?” The broken edge of the stem was jagged, dangerous-looking. “Be careful, Thomas, you don’t want to cut yourself.”

Thomas met his eye. In an instant, he had changed. There was a flash of the old Thomas in his expression, the Thomas who could wound with words and wage a campaign of destruction if he didn’t like the look of your face. The merciless bastard Jimmy had heard about when he arrived at Downton, but had never witnessed first-hand. It fascinated and frightened him in equal measures.

“His name,” Thomas said, voice glacial, “was Thomas?”

Jimmy swallowed. “Well, Tommy. He hated Thomas.”

Thomas smiled. Jimmy had never seen anything more devoid of humour. “That’s lovely, Jimmy. Wonderful. How absolutely marvellous for you.”

“Thomas,” Jimmy began, although he had no idea what he was going to say next. Thomas stood. Jimmy did the same, not sure whether he ought to brace himself to be hit.

“You asked me what my life is like?” Thomas’ voice was cold enough to stop one’s heart. “I sleep in doorways. I beg people like you for money. I spent two years in prison.”

Jimmy hadn’t expected that. “Prison? Not for…”

“For stealing some rich lady’s handbag. And if you think it’s hard finding a job with no reference, try it with no reference and a criminal past.” Jimmy couldn’t imagine it. “So, while you and ‘Tommy’ were off visiting Paris, and making love, and having a perfectly gay time of it all, I’ve been bloody miserable. Of course I hate you. I’ve hated you for eleven years. I’ve never stopped.” Thomas’ voice broke. Tears shone in his eyes, and Jimmy’s vision grew blurry. “But I’ve never stopped loving you, either.”

One thought only occupied Jimmy’s mind: he had to be in Thomas’ arms. He needed to be as close to Thomas as it was possible to get, and he couldn’t wait even a second longer. They’d wasted far too much time already. Jimmy attacked Thomas with his mouth, plunging his tongue between Thomas’ teeth, digging his hands into Thomas’ hair. Thomas responded, grabbing the back of Jimmy’s thighs and lifting him off the ground. He was stronger than his feeble appearance suggested. Jimmy wrapped his legs around Thomas’ waist and held on.

Thomas backed him against the wall. Jimmy felt his head hit the plaster, but if it hurt, he didn’t notice. Thomas’ beard was less coarse than Jimmy had expected. Jimmy loved the sensation it brought, the added thrill of it rubbing against his face as Thomas dragged his mouth over to Jimmy’s ear and said, “Do you want it?” His voice was thick with emotion.

“What do you bloody think?” Jimmy groaned. He pulled himself even closer, pressing his growing erection against Thomas for emphasis. Thomas slipped his tongue into Jimmy’s ear, and Jimmy moaned again, a gritty, heartfelt sound he didn’t recognize.

“Tell me.”

Gladly. “I want you, Thomas. I’ve always wanted you. Even back then, I wanted you, but I couldn’t say.” Thomas’ hold on him faltered. Jimmy put down his feet and stood. “And I’m sorry.” He didn’t want to ruin the moment, he liked this painful urgency between them, but Thomas had to know. That was just as urgent. “Every time I’ve done it I pretended it was you.” Jimmy wasn’t stupid, not anymore. He knew what he’d been missing when he was with Tommy Shearer, and with William, and with Bert, and Frank. He’d missed Thomas. “I swear to God that’s true,” Jimmy said, when a look of uncertainty crossed Thomas’ face. “I’m not like that anymore. I’m a good man. I try to be, anyway.”

Thomas seemed to believe him. He picked him up again and threw him onto the bed with a roughness Jimmy had never experienced, and never known he loved. The mattress bounced beneath him, shifting as Thomas knelt over his body. Jimmy’s hands went to Thomas’ buttons as Thomas worked on his own trousers. In the blink of an eye, Mr. Finley’s clothes were gone. Thomas was hard already, his large, red cock straining up from a patch of dark hair. Jimmy needed to be naked, now. He reached for his own flies, but Thomas grabbed his wrist and moved him away. “No.” His voice was all but unrecognizable. “Let me.”

Jimmy was about to protest, but he owed Thomas a lot, and this was scarcely a hardship. He lay back on the hotel pillows and watched Thomas unbutton his shirt. He moved infuriatingly slowly. Jimmy came up, meeting Thomas’ mouth in a kiss, and Thomas pushed the shirt off Jimmy’s shoulders. He paused, examining Jimmy’s body as if he meant to memorize it. Jimmy shifted, uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. It’s not what it once was.” He’d tried to keep the hard, beautiful body of his youth, but it seemed to get more difficult with each passing year. There was a softness about his middle now, a lack of definition that made Jimmy grimace every time he looked in a mirror.

“No, it’s not,” Thomas agreed, rather too quickly for Jimmy’s liking. He kissed his way down Jimmy’s chest, his beard rubbing deliciously all the way, and circled his tongue around Jimmy’s navel. “It’s much, much better.”

Whatever had possessed Thomas was gone, and now, he wanted to be gentle. Jimmy could feel it in his careful kisses and soft touches, but Jimmy didn’t want that. Not this time. He wanted it rough, he wanted to continue the way they’d started. He pushed Thomas over, onto his back, and kissed him, using his teeth as well as his tongue until Thomas growled. Jimmy touched him then, feeling that amazing cock in his hand. Thomas was already leaking, so Jimmy was careful, when he took Thomas into his mouth, not to go too far. He wasn’t ready for Thomas to be finished just yet.

Jimmy sucked him only once, up and down, swirling his tongue and pushing Thomas’ foreskin back with his lips. It was a minor trick at best, but Thomas moaned and writhed like he’d never experienced anything so erotic. Just wait, Jimmy thought, until you see what else I can do.

But for now, for this time, Jimmy wanted only one thing. He held Thomas’ wet cock in one hand and straddled him, positioning himself where he needed to be. “Don’t get hurt,” Thomas murmured, but the emotion in his eyes and the raggedness of his breaths told Jimmy he wasn’t going to stop. Jimmy wasn’t, either. With one motion, he brought Thomas inside.

It was harder than he’d expected, but Jimmy liked that. He wanted to feel Thomas, to know he was really here, that it was really him, at last. Jimmy winced, involuntarily, and Thomas caught his hand. The glove Thomas wore now was ragged-looking and worn. Jimmy yanked it off and flung it aside, ignoring the squelch as it apparently landed in the crème brulée . Thomas brought Jimmy’s fingers to his lips and kissed them so sweetly that Jimmy’s heart constricted in his chest. “Move, Thomas,” he commanded. Thomas complied.

After more than eleven years of waiting, it didn’t take long. Thomas came first. Jimmy kept his eyes on his face, watching every twitch and nuance. Jimmy was right behind him, spurting over Thomas’ scarred chest. For a moment, he was uncertain how Thomas might react, but Thomas pulled him close, so that Jimmy lay fully on top of him. He kissed Jimmy, again and again, and a strong, new feeling came over Jimmy, something he’d felt very rarely in his life: pure, unadulterated joy.

After a long moment, Jimmy rolled off. He stayed by Thomas’ side, resting his head on Thomas’ chest and intertwining his fingers with Thomas’. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know where to start. “I love you,” he said, finally. He’d said it before, to other men, but now he knew what it meant. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that.” Thomas’ voice was kind again, with none of the biting bitterness of earlier. “Truly you don’t. It’s over.” It was. Jimmy was never letting Thomas out of his sight again.

Still, guilt lingered. “Prison, Thomas…”

“Was just like being in service. With less silver polishing and more fights.”

Jimmy laughed. He put an arm around Thomas’ middle, but Thomas groaned and moved Jimmy’s arm up, to rest atop his breastbone. “I’ve never eaten that much before. You’re lucky I kept it all in.”

“That’s charming.” But Thomas was charming. He always had been. That was the problem. His charm, and his looks and his entire way of being, had awoken something in Jimmy, all those years ago, something Jimmy had not been prepared to face. “I can’t explain why I went so far with it.” It wasn’t because of Thomas, he knew that. Jimmy had wanted Thomas gone, out of his sight and out of his mind. What had done him in, though, were O’Brien’s constant insinuations that if Jimmy didn’t push, harder and harder, people might suspect there was something about him. There was something about him. Thomas had made Jimmy see it when he didn’t want to, but he should never have been punished for that.

Thomas sighed. “I don’t need an explanation, my dear.” Still, he deserved one.

“I thought you would be all right,” Jimmy said. Thomas had friends, he knew people. He would land on his feet, Jimmy had always told himself that, and he’d always made himself believe it. The alternative was too hard to face.

“So did I. But I don’t want to dwell on the past. You’re not getting rid of me again.” Thank God. Jimmy nuzzled in closer. “Jimmy…” Thomas murmured.

“None of them called me that,” Jimmy said. “Nobody. You’re the only one.”

He couldn’t see Thomas’ face, so he didn’t know if he smiled. His hand stroked Jimmy’s hair, though, and he sighed with what Jimmy thought was contentment.

“What are we going to do, my dear?” It was Thomas asking this, Thomas looking to him for advice. At once, Jimmy felt the weight of it, but it was a weight he could bear. He was a stronger man now. He could be strong for Thomas.

“I’ll think of something,” Jimmy said, and reached for the cigarettes in the suitcase.

They smoked for a while, then turned out the lights. Thomas fell asleep quickly. Jimmy stayed with him, lying beside him until he heard regular breaths and soft snoring. He slipped out from beneath Thomas’ arm and stood by the window, in the dark.

The port never stopped. The activity had lessened, but it hadn’t ceased. The big ships were still there, contents being loaded and unloaded. Jimmy watched, ate his crème brulée and thought.

The idea, when it came, was so perfect, he felt stupid for not having come up with it as soon as he saw Thomas. He wanted to wake Thomas up to share it, but one look at him, sleeping peacefully and comfortably for the first time in what? Months? Years? Chased that idea from Jimmy’s mind. Instead, he climbed back into bed. He lay on his side, put his arm around Thomas, and slept.

***

“Jimmy! Wake up!” Jimmy shifted, the bed beneath him far more luxurious than his sagging narrow mattress at home. He stretched out, enjoying the feel of the soft sheets, until there was an ache in his backside. Just like that, he remembered exactly where he was and what he’d been doing.

“Thomas.” Jimmy opened his eyes. Sunlight filled the room. Thomas stood next to him, a nervous expression on his face. On his shaved face, Jimmy noticed. He looked more like Thomas that way, more like the Mr. Barrow he’d fallen in love with against his will and ruined because of it. Jimmy was pleased to see that man again but, at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel the slightest twinge of grief over the loss of the beard.

“You should get up,” Thomas said. “You’re late for work.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a mate who’ll cover for me.” George would exact payment later, in the form of innuendo and jokes which Jimmy could do nothing about, but it was a fair trade. He reached up, to bring Thomas into his arms. Thomas hesitated.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“I won’t.” He put a hand on Thomas’ face. His skin was deliciously smooth, and Jimmy desired at once to feel it against his lips. He pulled Thomas down again. This time, Thomas came, allowing Jimmy a long, deep kiss. “And,” Jimmy said, when Thomas moved away, “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

Jimmy sat up. It hurt, but in the best of ways, and he didn’t shift to alleviate the pain. “Come to Mr. Finley’s at half-past eleven this morning. I’ll tell him we need an under-butler.”

Thomas’ forehead creased. “Nobody has an under-butler. Do they?”

“That’s not the point. He’ll listen to whatever I say, especially once he hears you were at Downton.” Thomas didn’t seem convinced. Jimmy took his hand and raised it to his lips for a quick kiss. “In any case, we need somebody. Our butler’s a wreck. He’ll be gone in a few years, and you’ll get his job.” It was what Thomas had always deserved. The Finleys weren’t the Granthams, and their house was no Downton Abbey, but in some ways, it was better. It was modern.

“I haven’t got any employment history.”

“We’ll say you’ve been in India these last years. Living with your family.”

Thomas laughed, an actual, genuine laugh. “I don’t look like I’ve been in India.”

“We’ll say you kept out of the sun. And if Mr. Finley rings Lord Grantham, which he won’t, I’m sure Lord Grantham will speak up for you.” He would have done it eleven years ago, if not for Jimmy.

“Grantham will have forgotten me by now.”

“Darling,” Jimmy said. The word sounded right. It came naturally to Jimmy’s lips, although he’d never uttered it before. “You’re unforgettable.”

Thomas didn’t laugh this time, which was just as well. It wasn’t a joke.

Thomas had dressed himself, for what purpose Jimmy couldn’t imagine, and Jimmy’s hands went once again to the buttons of his shirt. Once again, Thomas stopped him. Wordlessly, he pushed Jimmy over, onto his back. Jimmy went easily, happily. He’d never wanted anything more.

Afterwards, it was unspeakably difficult for Jimmy to leave, but he had to get on. Later, he promised himself. Tonight, even. Still, he felt Thomas’ eyes on him as he dressed, as if he was afraid Jimmy might disappear if he glanced away even for a moment.

“Remember,” Jimmy said. “Half-past eleven. I’ll speak to Mr. Finley before then.”

“All right.” Thomas’ voice remained sceptical.

Jimmy went over to the bed. He was still only half-ready, his partially buttoned shirt hanging down over his bare legs and his sock garters on display. He brought Thomas against his body, hugging him close, pressing his face against Jimmy’s stomach. “Why?” Jimmy couldn’t formulate the thought any better than that, but Thomas seemed to understand.

“Because I gave up, Jimmy.” He sighed. Jimmy sat on the bed beside him, taking Thomas’ bad hand in his. Have to find him a new glove, Jimmy thought. He’d forgotten about that, but it was an easy problem to fix. “Grantham gave me some money. Quite a bit of money, in lieu of…” He waved a hand, as if the missing word was an obscenity. In lieu of a reference. “Enough to go to America, but I didn’t really want to. I took a room in a boarding house and thought I’d drink myself to death.” The words hurt, more than any Jimmy had heard since they’d been reunited. The image of it, of Thomas so sad and alone that he thought life wasn’t worth living, was even worse.

“I’m so—”

Thomas placed a finger against Jimmy’s lips. Jimmy kissed it. “Don’t say it. Anyway, I was as rubbish at that as I was at everything else. I ran out of money, and the landlady chucked me out. I ran into a posh lady that same afternoon. An Isobel Crawley type.” He smirked. “I stole her handbag. Don’t ask me why.” He shook his head. “It all rather went downhill after that.”

“Well, now it’s going to go uphill,” Jimmy said. “And up, and up, and up. I promise.” He kissed the back of Thomas’ hand and stood to finish dressing.

When Jimmy got back to the house, he found Mr. Finley in his study, reading the newspaper. “I’m sorry I could not attend you this morning, Mr. Finley.” Mr. Finley glanced up, then turned the page.

“George said you were ill. Feeling better?”

Good old George. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Hair of the dog, Mr. Kent. It’s the only thing for it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Finley looked up. He wasn’t an old man, only in his late forties. Considerably younger than Lord Grantham had been when Jimmy first went to Downton Abbey, but Jimmy had been such a child then, everybody over the age of thirty had seemed positively decrepit. Even Thomas had seemed old to him, at first.

Mr. Finley’s gaze was appraising, and Jimmy grew uneasy. “Do you have a busy day today, sir?”

“Yes. I’ll go into the office shortly. Don’t worry, there’s no need for you to come.” His eyes met Jimmy’s. “The Grand telephoned. Apparently, you took a room last night?”

Jimmy licked his lips. He felt naughty, as if he’d been caught out, but there was nothing wrong with what he’d done. “I used my own money, sir.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it could easily be fudged.

“Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. But you’re welcome to put it on the account the next time a friend of yours is in town. Better rates.”

Jimmy let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind.”

“Not at all.” Mr. Finley rose.

“There’s just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

Jimmy licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “My friend. He’s recently back from India, but he was Lord Grantham’s valet for a number of years.”

“Yes?” Mr. Finley patted his pockets, looking for his watch. Jimmy took it from the table and passed it to him.

“I wondered if we might be able to offer him a position here. As under-butler,” Jimmy added quickly, lest Mr. Finley think he was giving up the role of valet. He loved Thomas, more than anything, but he needed a job, too, obviously. “I think Mr. Vernon could use the help.”

“Speak to him about it, then. If he gives the all clear, bring your friend on.”

Jimmy’s heart lifted in a way it hadn’t for many, many years. Not since he’d stood in the hall with Thomas behind him, learning how to wind a clock. He’d pushed down the feeling then, but now, Jimmy revelled in it. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” He saw Mr. Finley to the door, then raced downstairs.

“Look who finally wandered in.” George smirked, as expected. Jimmy was too thrilled to care, or even to be embarrassed. “Had a good night with your ‘friend’, then, did you?”

“Where’s Vernon?”

“Where he always is. Passed out in his office. Mrs. White went in to try to get him up.” The male and female staff mixed very little, and Mrs. White, the housekeeper, had nothing but ill-concealed contempt for Mr. Vernon. She’d be happy to see Thomas step in, Jimmy knew. As long as Thomas did a good job, which he would, and didn’t leer at the maids, which he wouldn’t. “He threw a bottle at her, so now she’s fit to be tied.”

Jimmy didn’t care. All of this was less than insignificant in the face of one momentous, amazing event. “My friend’s coming to work here.”

“What?”

“As under-butler. He’ll turn this place around.”

“Mr. Finley’s agreed?”

“Yes.”

George’s smirk became a grin. “You’ll not be at it every night, will you? Because a fellow’s got to sleep.”

“George!”

He clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. Jimmy started, a little, at the gesture of easy camaraderie. “I’m happy for you. It’s bloody unfair, though. You’ll be rooming side-by-side all cozy like, and I get a slap upside the head from Mrs. White if I so much as glance at the door to the women’s hall.” Jimmy had never thought of it like that before.

Jimmy had plenty to do, even while Mr. Finley was at work. There were shoes to be polished and clothes to be attended to, but all he could do was stand beside the back door, peering out every few seconds from the moment the clock read half-past eleven.

Thomas didn’t come. Half-past became twenty to, and then quarter to. Jimmy looked and looked, straining his eyes to stare as far into the distance as he could, but Thomas wasn’t there. He’s changed his mind, Jimmy thought. He’s decided he’s better off without me after all. Jimmy couldn’t blame him, not in the least.

As the upstairs clock struck noon, twelve long, loud bongs that were like knives to Jimmy’s heart, Jimmy suddenly saw him. He came around the corner in Mr. Finley’s ill-fitting clothes and Jimmy’s overcoat, the suitcase in his hand. Jimmy couldn’t wait. He ran outside and met Thomas halfway down the alley. “Sorry I’m late,” Thomas said, his tone casual, as if they’d been meeting like this every day for years. “I stopped in for a haircut and the barber was a chatty sort.”

Thomas’ hair was shorter, slicked back with pomade. The streaks of grey were still there. Other than that, he looked just as he had before, at Downton Abbey, as if the last eleven years of misery had been completely erased. Jimmy wasn’t naïve. He knew it would be far harder to erase those years from Thomas’ inside, from his heart, but Jimmy would do it. He would devote the rest of his life to the pursuit, happily. He was unspeakably grateful to have the opportunity.

They couldn’t embrace, not here. Instead, Jimmy extended a hand. Thomas shook it, then held onto it, looking into Jimmy’s eyes for a long, long moment. “Welcome home,” Jimmy said, and smiled.


End file.
